


A Thousand Natural Shocks

by AndreaLyn



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nero takes from Kirk. Nobody does that and lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Natural Shocks

Throughout the Empire, there are stories told to terrify young children into a life of abeyance and obeisance, trained to fear the dark and the monsters coming to claim your soul. The children learn to join Starfleet and to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing,  _rule_  them.   
  
Captain Jim Kirk is one of those terrors, but he has a certain degree of falsified kindness that he employs in order to set enemies at ease before he strikes. The ISS Enterprise is a terrifying envoy of war throughout the galaxy and all know this.  
  
All also know that the rogue Emperor Nero has many tools at his disposal and many allies turned against the Empire. Nero has called them weak and unable to stop even the most simplistic of problems. The coup is coming, but Starfleet has spent the last several years sending army after army to cut at Nero’s power.  
  
It seems to be working, which is when the Enterprise is sent in to cut the jugular.  
  
That was exactly twenty-eight hours ago, but something has gone wrong.  
  
Nero has dared to cross Kirk and send spies aboard the ship while they discussed a supposed term of surrender. By the time Kirk returns back and rips apart the ship to find what they took, Nero’s ship is long out of range and gone with it is the prize they stole from right under Kirk’s nose.   
  
Scott barely makes it back to consciousness before Kirk twists the knife in his existing wounds. “What did you let them do?” he demands, leaning down and forward against a wound that’s due to be fatal very soon. He leans harder when all Scott can do is gasp and groan and Kirk only releases the pressure he’s placed on the hilt when he realizes that he won’t get his answer if Scott is completely dead.  
  
“Sir,” Scott chokes out with a healthy spattering of blood that spills over his lips, staining the nice floor of the transport bay. One of Kirk’s ensigns is going to have to clean that up. He can’t abide having a messy ship, now can he? “They took McCoy.”  
  
Kirk allows a brief smile and pushes the knife in deeper than before, hearing the sluice of blood and guts give way to the sharp edge of his personal knife.  
  
He pulls it out and lifts it to the light, watching with fascination as every droplet of blood glows crimson and ethereally before falling all the way to the floor. “Clean this up,” he orders of the lowliest ensign in the room. “Spock,” he says mildly, looking at his first officer over his shoulder. “Get me a new chief engineer.”  
  
“Captain,” Spock begins evenly.   
  
“I hope there’s no criticism forthcoming,” Kirk notes pleasantly, cheerful as ever as he slowly and methodically cleans the blood from off his blade. “He allowed our chief medical officer to simply be removed from the ship.”  
  
“My only comment regards your placement of the knife,” Spock assures. “I calculate it would be sixty-three percent more painful were you to move your entry point three inches higher.”  
  
Kirk’s always going to love Spock a little in that way that you can a homicidal brother. He knows that Uhura has her possessive paws all over his first officer and values his balls, so he’s never made a competing claim. However, you can’t just ignore the man’s ability to improve a situation. You have to admire it.   
  
“Excellent critique, Mr. Spock, I’ll keep it in mind.” He leans on the comm., clearing his throat to get the bridge’s attention. “Chekov, pursue Nero’s ship. We’re going to war.”  
  
*  
  
Jim is sitting in a Romulan’s lap with his knife brushing tattoos on his neck affectionately. He’s found the coarsest of ropes that he can to bind the man’s hands behind his back and his ankles together and Jim has been returning to this room every hour to offer new cuts and slices to give the man more incentive to talk. He’s blackmailed Pike in order to head this way, threatening to let out the news of just  _why_  Kirk ascended so quickly to his position without having to actually kill anyone (not that he’s averse, but he had other cards to play first).   
  
Now he’s on his third Romulan. The first two wanted to be oh so honourable and opted for death instead of talking. Jim just takes that to mean that he has to get more inventive in his methods of his torture. He has to give the promise and hope of actual escape. This time, he’s allowed Janice to come in between every hour and offer a half a glass of water.  
  
Kindness so that Jim can remind the Romulan that if he cooperates, there may be a way out.   
  
There isn’t, of course, but the mind does terribly frail and tricky things when its under assault.   
  
He’s straddling strong thighs and smiling warmly as he wiggles the knife and inserts the point just an inch above the femoral artery in the man’s thigh. There’s a certain look of insanity in Kirk’s eyes, but he’s also enjoying himself. It really does become a dull day when your work isn’t enjoyable any longer. “Where,” he asks slowly, “are they keeping McCoy?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“That’s too bad. You know, I was going to get a nice long night of sleep tonight, but I do like a challenging project. They say I’m a genius, you know,” Kirk remarks calmly, digging the knife in and twisting it a quarter inch. “They say that you have to challenge a genius with new problems and situations. I think it’ll be very beneficial to me if you decide to draw this out all night because you will talk,” he says, friendly voice going icy on the last three words. He leans in and bites on the Romulan’s earring with his teeth, tugging hard until he splits the lobe apart.   
  
He licks at the blood present and takes his time to pin the Romulan down, ignoring the bucking and the writhing. He doesn’t even want to allow him to express his pain.  
  
The torture continues for the night.  
  
By dawn, Kirk knows which way to steer his ship, but not where to find McCoy. That takes another two pieces of Romulan scum. By the time he has all the information he needs, he’s livid and Spock can tell.  
  
“Captain, while normally I might make comment on your illogical emotions, it appears to me that in this case, your blinding rage may aid you,” Spock notes as he watches Kirk slowly begin to load up his body with weapons. He slaps guns in holsters, tucks knives away, straps Sulu’s borrowed sword over his back and sets his phaser to kill.   
  
They’re within range of Nero’s impressive warship and Jim has all the information he needs to stage a quiet guerrilla attack with several members of his security team. Abandoning this fight is not an option, not when Kirk has discovered the queen’s gambit of facts:  
  
 _Nero is using McCoy as a pretty plaything to fuck all day and all night_ , the last Romulan had choked out as his dying words. He might have lived longer if he’d held off on that little morsel of information, though not too long. Kirk’s patience only stretches so far, after all. He clasps the taser and slides several vials of particular favourite compounds into his bulletproof vest and cocks the nine-millimeter that McCoy kept locked away for events just like these.  
  
“You sure you don’t want to come?” Kirk offers to Spock one last time. He’s kept enticing Spock with the thought of death and destruction. Kirk’s been enjoying the ride so far. He’s gotten to torch an outpost in order to keep their arrival secret, tortured and killed, and he’s bribed and blackmailed every security officer he can in order to get their loyalty bound to him before he storms the castle, so to speak.   
  
Spock seems to consider for a moment, fingers deftly stroking his beard. “While the offer is very tempting, the odds of survival are one in five thousand, four hundred, and three. The odds of being placed in an awkward situation between you and the Doctor that I have no intention of witnessing are one in two hundred and fifty-nine.”  
  
“So you’re more worried about the dirty things I’m going to do to Bones when we find him than death,” Kirk interprets with mild disgust. “Trust a Vulcan to fear fucking more than the end of the mortal coil.”  
  
He steps up to the transporter pad eagerly, joining the nine other members of this away party. Kirk doesn’t expect to see any of them back at his side. They understand. To return and fail is as good as a death sentence as Kirk doesn’t abide failures in his ranks.   
  
There is no other option than to rescue McCoy from the depths of Nero’s grasp.   
  
Kirk turns his attention to the new chief engineer, nodding firmly to the green alien that Scott had brought on board ages ago after his interminable time on the prison planet of Delta Vega. “Beam us right into the center of the ship, Keenser,” Kirk orders. “Security, you know your tasks. No one touches Nero except for me,” he warns strictly. It’s been nearly a year since the abduction from his ship and that personal point of pride hasn’t simply disappeared. He’s going to impress very strict rules about how they’re going to avoid this sort of disaster in the future, but for the moment all he cared about is McCoy.  
  
“Your bones are  _mine_ ,” he’d announced in a shuttle on the way to processing, when McCoy told him all about how his wife had killed, maimed, and murdered her way through his life. Kirk had known a pretty and useful thing when he saw one and claimed him with biting kisses and branding marks later that night.  
  
His Bones needs to be back where he belongs.  
  
“Energize,” he commands with a hand on his phaser, ready to shoot the minute they arrive.   
  
Kirk has always appreciated the instantaneous result that the transporter has. In this case, it brings him from relative safety to a war-zone and he’s going in guns blaring. He holds his phaser in one hand and the more ancient weapon of death in the other – the gift of an old Smith & Wesson, ironically, from McCoy himself one holiday season.   
  
He kills the first two Romulans he sees without thinking and only starts methodically aiming his gun to invite slower, more painful deaths when he’s halfway through the room.  
  
“Nero,” he demands, choking the life out of the next tattooed bastard he sees. “ _Now_.” His black clothes allow him to blend into the shadow and he lurks behind the heavy machinery of the main engine room while his security team takes no prisoners. If they’re lucky, this will be a hostile takeover and Kirk can have another ship for a growing armada. Actually, Kirk thinks as he chokes out the last breaths of life from the man beneath him, fuck luck. He’s going to do this on the basis of skill and talent alone.   
  
He finally finds his answer when he slides out Sulu’s katana and threatens to turn the next man’s guts into pretty little ribbons.  
  
“Nero is with his harem,” the Romulan blurts out. “They’re in his private chambers.”  
  
“Was that so hard? Thank you,” Kirk says with a pleasant smile before he rams his sword straight-through the alien’s gut for a fairly quick and painless death. He’s not a monster, after all. These bastards should appreciate the kindness that he’s showing them. He hears the firing die down and stands slowly to survey the corpses of many men not his own and only two of his former security team lying in pools of blood – both deep crimson and deep olive.   
  
He takes note of who falls first in battle and spends little time pushing forward, sliding the katana back into its hilt and ready to take back what’s rightfully his.   
  
Kirk makes sure that security guards are ready to flank the room when they approach it, but Kirk informs them that if any of them so much as venture inside, he’ll make sure they spend time in the agony booth to pay for their insubordinate actions. This is his task now and as he slips into the chamber, he sees half-naked slaves offering their submission to Nero and immediately Jim knows that Bones isn’t one of them.   
  
“Kirk. I’m surprised,” Nero drawls.   
  
“Why, you didn’t think I was gonna come to kill your thieving ass?”  
  
“I’m surprised it took you so  _long_. The Empire’s golden boy isn’t quite as effective as they think he is,” he snarls and snaps, more than slightly abrasive as he tries to cut down Kirk’s defenses. Kirk isn’t going to let him poke and prod without consequences and he strides forward while Nero is busy fondling the bare and glistening torsos of men and women in his harem. “All talk. No show.”  
  
“You took something that belongs to me,” Kirk informs Nero, armed with so much and knowing that Nero is armed with very little. Still, Kirk wants to make it poetic and so he wants to get the one weapon on Nero’s body (hooked precariously at the back of his waistband) and turn it against him. He slides in closer and grabs hold of the back of Nero’s head while forcing his lips against the Romulan’s, biting and kissing and giving everything that he is into one furious kiss that’s going to be Nero’s very last.  
  
Around him, he hears the dazed murmur of the concubines and whores, but not his Bones. He needs to know where he is.  
  
“Where did you put him?”  
  
“My best?” Nero says as Kirk eases away just enough to let the other man speak. “Tied up like the pretty pet he is.”  
  
Kirk’s grinning now and all around him gorgeous and perfect bodies are collapsing to the ground. His security detail is rushing in and Kirk is laughing, ready to fiddle while the fires burn Rome if he has to. Nero doesn’t seem half as happy, staring at him with increasing confusion.  
  
“You’re still on  _my_  ship,” Nero reminds him sharply.  
  
“And I’ve got  _your_  gun.”  
  
Kirk almost feels as if shooting Nero is too quick and clinical, too kind an end for him. He had thought about taking him home to the  _Enterprise_  in order to elongate the torture, but then there would be chances for escape and he has a long schedule ahead of him of reclaiming what’s his after so long away. He doesn’t hesitate as he squeezes the trigger and the brevity of Nero’s death works for him.   
  
He sputters, chokes, and then dies. Nero didn’t deserve anything more than that and Kirk isn’t going to give him a martyr’s death, refuses to make him any kind of hero for enduring the torture of the Empire. Nero’s death is just a perk in this mission.  
  
The real goal lies behind the door linking Nero’s personal bedroom to his little prison chamber.  
  
He tucks away his phaser and turns around to survey the damage and smiles proudly when he sees that not one of his security team has fallen. They’ll receive their reward. Janice will do well for them, they’ve been sniffing at her Empire-forced miniskirt for weeks now and his yeoman is nothing if not  _accommodating_.   
  
“Stay here and watch this door,” Kirk commands them. “I don’t care what noises you hear, you are  _not_  to interrupt,” he warns. “I won’t even bother with the agony booth, I’ll kill you right here. I say when we beam back aboard the ship. I’m allowing free range in this room. Anything you want to kill or steal, have at.”  
  
He makes sure he gets the eye contact of each of his men before turning his back to them. They’re all too aware that any attempt on his life will earn them death or worse – Spock. Kirk takes a minute to compose himself before entering the next room and is more than grateful to find that Bones has performed so well that he’s earned himself private quarters.  
  
Kirk will forever deny that the flush of fury that pulsed through him at the sight of McCoy had anything to do with love. He’ll spit on the word and stab it to death before he ever admits that. No. This is belonging and this is his claim. He doesn’t keep a Captain’s Woman because he’s always had something better.   
  
A Captain’s CMO who  _wants_  to be at his side.   
  
He strides across the room to yank the gag out of Bones’ mouth, studying the filthy rag and flicking it aside as he gives a cursory look to the bruises, burns, and litter of cuts that Nero has left all over  _his_  Bones’ body. That’s not all that Nero’s left for him. Clearly, someone has been amassing intricate replacements for clothes for Bones because he’s been clamped down by a thick leather collar over his neck and the barest of anything covering his decency. Kirk isn’t sure that the too-small black briefs he’s wearing are really anything but shreds. McCoy’s ass isn’t covered at all, that firm and fuckable trait of his fully on display. Just around the corner is yet another incentive, all those dark curls of hair leading to treasure.   
  
“He was still alive when I got here,” is Kirk’s chiding comment.  
  
“The poison takes six weeks to take its full course,” is McCoy’s biting reply, hips bucking upward as if just  _seeing_  Kirk has made certain parts of him very happy. “It was week five.”   
  
It would warm Kirk’s heart to know that his Bones had been taking measures into his own hands, but nothing much warms his heart these days. He starts to strip himself of weapons, but doesn’t let them stray far. Knives are placed on the bed beside Bones’ naked form, guns tucked under the pillow and Sulu’s katana is dropped to the floor at the bedside before Kirk straddles Bones.   
  
His jaw is aching from how tightly its wound and the demands of possessive need rush through his mind, putting thoughts there that want to touch Bones every place he can, bite him and kiss him and mark him for Kirk.   
  
“Bones,” Kirk murmurs and for that one flicker of a second, he hears himself. He hears how vulnerable and young he can sound when he’s around Bones and that ought to make him weak, but he knows that it makes him furiously strong. He’ll do anything to make sure Bones stays his and Bones will do anything for him with his array of poisons and his cruel coldness and ability to render a man limp and paralyzed with three minute cuts of a scalpel. “You’re mine.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“No,” Kirk almost howls the word, feeling like he’s got an animal trapped inside his chest raring to get out. “Say it.  _Say it_ ,” he demands, palm pushing against a gaping wound that Nero’s left where thigh meets hip, marring that perfect place on Bones’ body.  
  
His Bones never cries out in pain unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s economical with his sounds, though not always his words, and he never lets anything slip without it having a purpose. Right now Bones is staring up at Kirk and though there’s salt in his wounds (so to speak), he isn’t letting anything loose. No panic, no desperation, no indication that he’s missed Kirk at all.   
  
That is just not fucking acceptable.  
  
There is one small indicator that gives Kirk hope that McCoy is happy to see him.  _Fear_. Bones has never been able to fully snuff out the fear in his eyes and he looks pretty damn scared right now. Since Nero is dead, that means that McCoy is scared of Kirk and what he’s going to do, which isn’t exactly the most irrational worry in the world.  
  
Kirk expects the best of his people. Really, McCoy should have found his way back by now, but Kirk supposes that when your ass is being consistently loosened by a Romulan cockwhore, you had something of an excuse as to why you weren’t back on the  _Enterprise_  post-haste. He leans over the bed to grab hold of the phaser in order to pry off the chains that Nero clapped him in and hauls McCoy up by the hair, no gentleness necessary because they know how they each are supposed to behave.  
  
“Up,” he commands, forcing Bones to his feet and watching the slightly wobbly movement, which just tells Kirk that McCoy hasn’t had a chance to be vertical much lately, which only serves to further infuriate him.   
  
He drags him up and endures the tripping as Kirk shoves the bathroom door open and pushes Bones in, sending him skittering until he braces himself with the porcelain of the bathtub.   
  
“You smell like him,” Kirk accuses with disgust. His prize possession,  _his_  doctor has been compromised and been smeared with the stink of Nero and Kirk won’t abide this for a second more. “How long has he been taking you?”  
  
“Since he kidnapped me, Kirk,” Bones snarls right back at him, fingers scrabbling to loosen the collar around his neck with great determination. “Since you didn’t find me soon enough.”  
  
“You’re not his,” Kirk insists, turning the water on and pushing the temperature up as close to scalding as he can get without it burning the skin away. “You’re  _mine_. If I have to lock you up like an artefact in a museum, everyone’s going to know that you’re mine.”  
  
He scrubs at McCoy’s bare skin with his roughened palms, pushing soap through his fingers and lathering it to scrub off the stench of Nero from every last crevasse on McCoy’s body. He grabs at the disposed collar and pushes McCoy against the wall of the water-shower, grateful that the hedonistic tendencies of the rogue Emperor allowed him small pleasures like this.   
  
“Mine,” Kirk reiterates, voice a low growl of demand that the universe fall in line and agree with him. He slides the collar around McCoy’s wrists (pinned slightly uncomfortably behind his back) and binds it tight so that McCoy can barely move them and can’t touch a thing. The water pours over their bodies – Kirk having stripped quickly as he could – and staining the black leather now binding McCoy’s wrists and warping it permanently.   
  
It doesn’t take very long to get McCoy naked and the minute all that pale skin is on display for Kirk, something snaps and he stops being patient and calculating.   
  
They’re behind closed doors and no one will be able to see his loss of emotional control. McCoy knows better than to start tattling around and they have an agreement. They may both be flawed and they may not entirely understand what the other brings out in them, but it works. It’s dangerous and always on the edge of a precipice, but it works.   
  
Kirk’s fingernails dig into McCoy’s hip, bruising and marking him with the possessive grip of a man long denied.   
  
“Say it,” Kirk orders, shoving McCoy up against the wall forcefully enough to earn a pleasing noise. He barely takes the time to prepare him with the things that Nero has left lying around his inner sanctum, no doubt used before on McCoy to loosen him up thoroughly. He turns McCoy and pins his chest to the wall, giving his cock a couple of lubricated pumps before pushing himself into McCoy, forcing his ownership as firmly as he can.   
  
The binds at the small of McCoy’s back make Kirk smile with dark delight, glad to see that what’s his can still be trussed up prettily for him and as Kirk fucks McCoy (not bothering to help bring him off, depriving him of that possibility until he  _begs_ ), he knows that he’s finally taking back what’s rightfully his and no one in the empire can dare say otherwise.   
  
Kirk bows his head forward and presses bruising kisses to McCoy’s shoulders, only moving on to the next pale spot when he’s content with the mark he’s left. When he’s finished, McCoy will have a pox that won’t be cured by any modern medicine because Kirk plans to thoroughly forbid it.   
  
These are marks meant to last.   
  
He keeps driving forward, hitched and discordant thrusts that go fast-fast-slow and follow no actual rhythm. Kirk takes his time and tries to earn every last sound from McCoy (always too quiet in bed and the various places they’ve chosen for fucking) that he can.   
  
“Say it,” Kirk warns and his moments of politely  _requesting_  this of McCoy are gone and now comes the demands. If he doesn’t get his way, he likes the notion of shoving McCoy in the agony booth to make him come to terms with how very kind it can be in Kirk’s protection if you just say all the right lines.  
  
“I’m,” McCoy chokes out, hips pushing forward like he’s trying to find friction, but Kirk carefully removes that possibility as he grabs hold of McCoy’s hips and hauls him back onto his cock, taking McCoy away from the wall.   
  
“You’re what, Bones?”  
  
“I’m yours,” he gasps out. “Kirk...”  
  
It’s begging as far as McCoy is concerned and it’s all it takes for Kirk to hit orgasm. He takes a moment to smirk at the come dripping from McCoy’s ass and swipes his thumb in it, reaching around and giving McCoy just a stroke of his thumb up McCoy’s erect cock, taking a moment to scrape against the head, enjoying the immediate reaction that guts out of McCoy.   
  
“You’re goddamn right you’re mine,” Kirk agrees, loosening the bonds. “Finish.”  
  
McCoy flexes his fingers and rolls his wrists, but that’s all he does before attending to his erection, quiet as he comes with little more than a reiterated ‘yours, Kirk, dammit’ under his breath before he slumps forward against the wall. Kirk supposes that he should get them back to the ship, to start the ‘healing’ process, but he grabs McCoy and hauls him under the spray of the shower to wash off any smell of what they’ve done and any trace of what Nero’s been doing over the past year.   
  
Five minutes later, Kirk foists clothes at McCoy. While he would like to parade McCoy naked and marked for all his crew to see, there are too many who have an overinvested liking of McCoy’s body and he doesn’t want to increase any interest.  
  
“Thought you were going to leave me to die,” McCoy admits as they rejoin the security detail and begin to make their way back to the agreed meeting place. Kirk’s keeping his distance from McCoy, even though his CMO could use the help. Kirk knows all about how weak that can make a man look, though, and refuses to contribute to the weakening of any ally.   
  
Kirk waits until all the security goons are gone, hand on his comm, to reply. “Well, then, you’re an idiot.”  
  
He takes his prize in the form of McCoy’s genuine smile, tipped low to the ground, but  _there_.   
  
“Enterprise. Two to beam over,” Kirk orders, triumphant and smug. “McCoy is ours again.”


End file.
